What nobody heard
by I'm Nova
Summary: Billy the Skull recounts his time with Sherlock. For Let's Write Sherlock challenge 22.


_Disclaimer: I own nothing._

What nobody heard

My actual name isn't Billy, you know. Or at least it wasn't when there was a whole skeleton under me, and meat on my bones. My name was Eleazar Davidson, and I was an accountant until a stroke killed me. As my boy would say, boring. Dull. I'm incline to agree with him on that.

Even if I *had* donated my body to science, when he took me away from the rest of me, I confess I was pissed. He'd been high at the time – he was in his Shezza phase still – and I'm sure that for some reason stealing me had looked like a brilliant idea at the time. I mildly hoped he'd bring me back as soon as he sobered up – but at the same time I feared ending on a random skip. It was that fear that made me so angry. I deserved better, didn't I?

As you know, neither happened. "And who are you? Hello there," he said as soon as he came back to his senses. "You know, it was stupid of you to get caught," he added conversationally.

I wished desperately to still have a tongue to put him in his place with, but naturally I couldn't talk.

"I think I'll call you Billy. After all, I know a very stupid William," he decided, before ignoring me for the rest of that day.

Of course, at the time I didn't know he was referring to himself, and bristled, even if once again I could show no outward sign of it. It was only after, from bits and pieces he told me – he's always been a talkative boy, even if apparently no one but me was interested in hearing him out, poor thing – that I realized that was self-loathing.

And that no, he wasn't saying he was stupid for doing drugs – at the time, he didn't see anything wrong with that eminently rational (he thought) choice – or he'd have called me Shezza. No, the stupid one – the one he desperately wanted to disappear, so much so that he choose to give his name to a dead thing in self-warning – was his childhood self. The trusting, caring, overly emotional child that he'd been once.

Drugs were both a way to numb his pesky emotions and keep his brain afire, and they were a perfectly fine choice, no matter what Mycroft said. (I'd soon learned a lot about Mycroft, who was – apparently – a git, but that I personally thought wiser than his brother. Of course at the time I hadn't met him yet.)

We'd soon gotten into a sort of companionable routine, Sherlock and I. He would wish me a good day upon waking, ramble a bit upon the most different subjects and then depart (presumably to do drugs) leaving me behind. Then when he was back (the days he was back at all) he would often treat me to a lovely violin concert – to which the neighbours sometimes protested, much to my surprise given his talent – and then bring me to his night stand and whisper his muffled confidences from the bed. Sometimes, if he was particularly down, I ended up by his side on the pillow.

Once again, I desperately wished for a tongue, not to scold him this time but to comfort and relieve his crushing loneliness. My boy needed some friends beyond me.

"I'd bring you along," he confessed once, "but I don't want to risk losing you while I'm high." If I still had shoulders, I'd have shrugged. It was just as well, because I didn't particularly care for drug dens, either.

But then came the day he packed me, announcing, "I've made a deal, Billy. We're going to rehab. But you'll like what comes after that." To be honest, I liked the idea of rehab very much, even if I was so very afraid that they'd notice me and take me away. I hadn't exactly wanted to leave my skeleton, true, but now I cared for Sherlock very much – it was simply impossible not to – and I didn't want to part with him.

Sherlock was sneaky, though, and my presence was never discovered. I could only be glad that he hadn't chosen to hide an emergency stash of drugs with the same level of craftiness, but apparently he was really serious on getting clean.

"You really really want what comes after this," I heard him murmur to himself – or perhaps to me, who knows – when he was at his worst. This, and, "Lestrade won't go back on his word."

I had no idea who this Lestrade was, but I sincerely hoped so. Because if he did disappoint my baby and that made him relapse, I'd have seen if I could curse him to hell. I was a sentient skull, after all. Shouldn't I have some supernatural powers? Or did this happen to everyone? Was – this – afterlife?

Idle ponderings aside, afterwards came my golden era. Montague street, and _crime scenes_ , and no matter the stares or the 'freak' he received, we were a team, and we solved crimes together. (Well, _he_ solved crimes. And if anyone would have been willing to hear him out instead of judging and/or insulting him, I'd be collecting dust instead of having the time of my whole existence, alive or not.)

Many a time I tried to communicate telepathically with the victims' bodies we found – dead body to dead body, we should have instantly bonded, I thought. Not that I could have shared my findings with Sherlock, but I would have felt more of a detective.

But either I didn't know how, or they didn't feel like talking to strangers because of the recent shock, or maybe being unable to connect with others was the whole point of afterlife. If it was so, I have to say that the hereafter sucks, even though I suppose that things could be much worse, so I really shouldn't complain so much.

My personal failures aside, I got to see my boy being brilliantly reckless (or was it recklessly brilliant? I couldn't decide). I huddled inside the warm pockets of the Belstaff during chases that left me terrifyingly thrilled even without adrenaline to speak of in my bones anymore, and started to share Sherlock's despise for our esteemed police, which I had always respected in life. The only exception to this being Lestrade, who was at the very least professional despite being clearly baffled by my presence and all around a nice person to have at your side.

I couldn't help but hope that Sherlock would have remembered that while we were on a case, and kept Greg – an actual member of the police – close. Because as much as I loved our mad chases (how unspeakably bored would I have been if I'd remained to the doctors' disposal, I wondered sometimes) it would really have benefitted the consulting detective to have backup every now and then.

There were unaccountable trips to A&E when Lestrade caught up with us which Sherlock had to be practically coerced into making, pouting all the while. I really didn't get him – did he want to hurt? Or had he some sort of past trauma? Why else would he always be so reluctant to see the necessary doctors?

I was terrified that someday one fiend or another would have overcome us, and Sherlock would have joined me in afterlife – and I'd lose our lovely conversations. I hoped that before it came to pass he'd use me as a blunt object to attack or defend himself. That had never happened yet, but I was confident that I could deflect a weapon – at least a bit, hopefully enough to save his life – or daze an enemy long enough for him to knock him out. And if I had to be broken in the process – even if that had to mean a second death for me, now that my conscience would not have had no link to the physical world at all – it would have been worth it to protect Sherlock.

Then, of course, came Baker Street. I didn't know how to feel about that. I mean, I was glad that my boy had found a friend. God knows he needed one. I couldn't help but miss Sherlock, though. Nobody likes being replaced. I sat on the mantle, and there were no more crime scenes for me. Then again, I didn't have a gun. I could see the usefulness of John.

But above all, when Sherlock talked to himself, he didn't call out to his childhood self – or me – anymore. There was no "Billy this" or "Billy we really need to do that". His mind palace had been updated accordingly after the move, and now almost every time his mutters called out to John, even when the man wasn't there. He'd become the detective's interlocutor of choice, the one whose input the sleuth asked to solve any doubt and test any theory.

Jealousy, bitter and burning, filled my soul. What had John done to deserve this? The shopping? Made tea? I was ultimately forced to recognize, though, that John had become so capital by accepting Sherlock. Liking him, quirks and all. Which I did, too, but my boy didn't know it. Sadly, I couldn't utter, "Fantastic." I didn't count as a true friend. I was decoration now. If I could, I would have sighed. I didn't want to hurt Sherlock, but I couldn't help but wish that this flatshare wouldn't last. He'd come back to me then. Yes, it was a selfish, horrible hope to have, but at times, I hated John Watson.

The fact that he talked to me too sometimes, when Sherlock was at Bart's on had run away somewhere else, didn't help his cause. He called me _buddy._ I had a proper name, thank you very much. What did he talk about, you ask? Mostly the blog. I was a way out of writer's block – or into it. That is, he'd read me a line or two and sigh, "I can't really write that, can I? Everyone would read through me – and Sherlock too. And he's already made clear that my silly crush is unwelcome." Well, I had my doubts about that – but even if I could have talked, I wouldn't have been about to play matchmaker. They were adults. They could deal with things (feelings) on their own.

But I couldn't help but hate how depressed my boy became each time the doctor went on one of his silly dates. Even if he finally talked to me again – not mind!John. "Oh stop it Billy!" he'd utter angrily, leaving me puzzled the first time I admit. What had I done? "He doesn't want you. He very vocally and repeatedly doesn't want you, but it doesn't matter. You don't want him. Can you imagine the mess it would be, dating?" Still, he was texting, trying to draw his friend back. He could imagine it very well, that's the problem. Hell, _I_ could imagine it. And he wanted it more than a locked room mystery.

Now, if only these two idiots started to talk to each other instead than me. I wouldn't have liked it, probably, as John wasn't worth of my Sherlock – but as long as my baby was happy, I would eventually have gotten used to it. But instead of acting like rational people, everyone assumed and assumed. Sherlock forgot that there were plenty of labels beyond straight that were not-gay (someone should really educate him). John ran from his feelings through meaningless hook-ups and plenty of tea. And I started to get really annoyed by them endlessly dancing around each other.

They didn't stop anytime soon, though. Idly I wondered why my own afterlife was cursed to share someone else's hell. And I thought it was bad at the start…but no, that was nothing. Absolutely nothing in comparison to what would come. The good days, when my bigger complaint – which I shouldn't have even cared about – was John putting his hands inside me to hide Sherlock's cigarettes. What can I say, I didn't want to be touched by him. Mrs. Hudson's dusting was a thing, her touch was always so gentle, but John was definitely taking too many liberties with me, handling me nonchalantly. I wasn't _his_ skull. (His actual skull wouldn't be long in joining my condition, if the boys didn't stop playing with fire.)

Then came the day I would have given a lot to be able to talk, because some strangers had come in when only I was home and set up cameras, and I knew, and couldn't warn anyone. The boys were in danger, of that I had no doubt. Indeed, not long after started a tale of mayhem (I wasn't witness to it, but I was certain all the same) and betrayal (if only I could have screamed at our policemen for their idiocy myself).

And afterwards…afterwards my baby wasn't back, and John came with his devastating news, not looking at me because after Sherlock had broken his own skull I wasn't a spectacle he could bear. I wished I could cry and wail, but I could only miss him. He was gone. He was gone and I expected to be gone in days too – shipped who knows where. Who would want me? Instead it was John who ran from the memories of 221B, and I was left on my place on the mantle, sole inhabitant (well, sort of) of the flat. Sometimes, Mrs. Hudson came by and dusted me again – though not as often – crying all the while. I had no comfort to offer or receive. Only amazement at being allowed to stay.

It all became clear two years later, of course. To my shame, I have to admit that while I was obviously heartbroken (despite my lack of heart), but mostly I felt…bored. (Well, I say bored and I mean lonely. I guess Sherlock has really rubbed off on me.) But when I saw he was back, and John most pointedly wasn't, I hoped for a while that we could go back to our halcyon days. I guess being allowed back at crime scenes would be too much to ask for…

Not only that didn't happen, it seemed that the 'out of sight, out of mind' proverb didn't apply at all here. It was more of an 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' case to my despite. He still talked to mind!Jawn more than me. a tiny sigh of pleasure and a fond gaze seeing 221B exactly the way he'd left it was all the attention I'd gotten, and I yearned for more. It was maddening.

And then John was marrying. So his crush on Sherlock was gone then? But who could possibly compete with my boy?...I didn't like that Mary character at all. And Sherlock was panicking and desperate to make him happy. To give him perfection (down to the bloody serviettes). Not to mention people who were rubbing salt in the wound. 'End of an era'? Did we really need to point it out, Mrs. Hudson? I wished to be able to tell him that *I* would be forever at his side…but even if I could it wouldn't have made him much good, I suppose. I wasn't what he wanted – not anymore. (I really thought for a moment things would have righted themselves for the boys back at the stag night…but it was not to be.)

And one should-have-been-moonless night he was back from the wedding, flopped on the sofa, buried his head in the cushions and moaned, "Oh God Billy…we're in love with him. Properly in love with him. It's no deep friendship, no little crush, no bloody military kink acting up. We're. In. Love. With. Him."

 _You might want to revise the we_ , I thought wrily. And also, _Are you seriously telling me that you're getting this only now? After all that pining every time he went on a date? Are you for real?_ I'd have rolled my eyes at him if I still had them.

"And he's forever out of reach. He's having kids, for heaven's sake!" Sherlock continued to groan.

'Tough. But it'll pass eventually, don't worry,' I wanted to say.

"Well, there's only one solution to that. You know, Billy. And you remember the percentage," he stated, getting up with a manic glint in his eyes. Wait, solution? Percent? Was this what I thought? Oh fuck.

Sadly it was exactly what I thought. And my poor baby pining in John's absence was both heartbreaking to watch and extremely irritating (the man didn't deserve to be pined over). It seemed to become the only object of our conversations anymore, his tragic unrequited and forever unrequitable love. Which made so ridiculous his relationship (or, well, sham of one) with Janine. (I didn't like her much either, to be honest. What the hell was 'Sherl'?)

Anyway, suddenly – it seemed so – John was back _after his wife bloody shot Sherlock._ (I was there and let me tell you, bullets aren't surgery. Bullets are what people like me are born of. And everyone in that room knew, but pretended not to, for God's sake. It was absurd.)

Sherlock's insensate lies aside, for a while we settled and it was almost as if no one had ever left. Which was good, I suppose, from my baby's point of view. From mine…I would have needed a lot of his best behaviour to even consider starting to forgive John for (unwittingly, I could agree on that) hurting Sherlock that much. What can I say, I am protective of him.

But then they went away for Christmas, and once again only John came back, looking haunted but not broken – so Sherlock was probably still alive, if maybe hurt – got his things and moved back in with his murderous wife, which was really a stupid move if you asked me. I was starting to get really tired of all this drama. Couldn't we settle somewhere quiet, maybe in the country, and find finally a little stability? I was pretty sure that afterlife shouldn't have been such an emotional rollercoaster.

And then one of many new empty days Mycroft came in and started packing Sherlock things and he really shouldn't have touched them. I supposed Sherlock was being held against his will then (what had my baby gone and done now?) because he would never have allowed it otherwise.

The elder Holmes hand actually hovered over me for a moment, and I prayed he'd pick me up – anywhere with Sherlock was bound to be better than the never changing sight from this blasted mantle. But he scolded himself out loud – it seemed Sherlock was not the only Holmes who liked to talk aloud to himself. "Impractical. And the last thing he needs now is a reminder of his own mortality." He clicked his tongue, disappointed in himself.

 _And why would that bother him? It never has before,_ I thought. Unless…Oh, _no._ Oh no, no, no, no, a thousand times no. Sherlock couldn't die on me _again._ I shouldn't have panicked. Only a little later my baby came back home, the Watsons in tow. He looked well, eyes shining with excitement for a new case. It seemed all would be well after all. (Or as well as things could be until his feelings went away.)


End file.
